By whose standard?
by Freya-Rhianna
Summary: Marcus is stuck playing for a team that sees little success. Oliver's been much more fortunate. Their path's seemed unlikely to cross, but when their publicist's bring them together they have to feign a relationship to restore the reputations tarnished by a Slytherin badge that haunts one, and a 'wild child' title that's hurting the other. But how far would they be willing to go?
1. Chapter 1

**This story is working from a similar premise I used in the incomplete story ****_'Lies and Slander'. _****Unfortunately I was finding it hard to start from where that one took off, having had some change of heart over the direction I wanted to take the story, and it was to an extent where it couldn't be fixed by merely changing the direction the chapters took. **

* * *

The club was abuzz with gyrating bodies, the scent of alcohol, and victorious cries. Through the throng a group of men clothed in navy-blue could be seen, alternating between chugging down shots and howling some form of victory cry that consisted of no coherent syllables. Every so often one would disappear into the mass of bodies, only to return later with a girl at their side, much to the hoots of approval from their fellows.

Puddlemere united had a lot of cause to celebrate this season. The latest victory was over the Tutshill Tornadoes who'd spent most of the league in first place, and thus had secured Puddlemere the first place position as they moved into the last stages of the tournament.

Puddlemere has wasted no time between the ending of that particular match, and the en mass migration to the nearest club (as most of their fans did likewise), and had since proceeded to get completely and utterly smashed.

With complete disregard to the public images their publicists had spent so long cultivating into something somewhat admirable, the men evidentially saw no fault in throwing their weight around that evening.

At that moment the team seeker, Benjy Williams, was trying to coerce the team keeper, Oliver Wood, into chatting up a girl that had been stood imperially at the edge of the room all night.

"She'd eat me up alive," Wood shook his head, though was still eyeing up the girl with obvious interest.

"And you're complaining?" Benjy clapped Oliver's shoulder, "Look mate, she's obviously waiting for one of us to try it on. She's been stood in that exact pose for almost an hour now." And indeed the pose did much to extenuate the girls curves, and Oliver wasn't denying that she was a stunning woman.

"I don't know man."

"You should go for it. It's been ages since you've relaxed, and she's not exactly gonna turn you down, is she? You're a celebrity mate. Live while you're young and all that."

Oliver shook his head slowly for a moment or two, but in the next instant he'd thrown back the remainder of his beer and was making his way towards the woman.

"Remember everything that I taught you, atta boy." Benjy called after him, and Oliver couldn't help but shake his head fondly.

Benjy was getting on a bit now, at the age of 34 he reckoned he only had a few more seasons left in him before he'd be forced to retire. It hadn't gotten him down at all though, despite how devoted he was to the sport. Everyone reckoned he'd get into some kind of executive position after his playing days were over, and if Deverill was to retire as manager, Benjy was a sure in.

Oliver's pace slowed as he approached the girl, who looked up as he cleared his throat.

"You alright?" Oliver asked, sidling up to her.

The girls eyes flickered about his person beneath her arched eyebrows, and came to rest on the crest sewn to Oliver's jumper "Something you want?"

Oliver grinned, but felt his confidence waver. "You, actually."

"Is that so," The girl said dryly.

Oliver cast a glance over his shoulder to see Benjy watching him encouragingly, and returned to the girl with renewed determination. "Yeah. Anything you'd be interested in...?"

"You're Oliver Wood, right?" The girl asked suddenly.

"Yeah. Yeah I am." His grin was back in full force now.

"Yeah. No. I'm good."

Oliver's smile dropped as quickly as it had spread. "Come on, don't be hasty now. We have all night..."

"I think she said no," Oliver turned at the sound of a man's voice from behind him, and was caught off guard when he recognised Marcus Flint. "just leave it, yeah."

Oliver bristled almost reflexively at Flint's presence, and stubbornly refused to leave at his request. "She with you then? Wouldn't want used goods anyway."

Flint half-snorted at the statement, before muttering "Beggars can't be choosers.". Oliver frowned, noticing that Flint lacked any of the bravado he'd been renowned for at school, and noted that he wasn't even looking Oliver in the eye as he spoke.

"What are you even doing here?" Oliver asked, waving a vague hand in the direction of the navy blue decorations that had been erected at the beginning of the celebrations.

"Forgot to cross-check our diaries. It's hard to avoid you when your face is everywhere."

"Noticed, have you? That's what it looks like to have a successful career."

By this point Benjy had rounded up the remainder of the team, and headed over to the pair with the intention of sparking up more conflict, as they were prone to after a few too many drinks. "What's a Falmouth doing here?"

"Can you even afford to be here?" Hunt, a chaser, supplied squaring up to Flint who was still not looking directly at any of the team. "What is it that a bottom-of-the-league salary _can_ afford you? A cardboard box in the street, and a bottle of piss?"

The group dissolve into laughter, capturing the attention of most of the club that had stopped moving momentarily to watch.

"Look, I don't want to start anything." Flint assured, one hand raised up in defeat as he held the other out for the girl still stood behind Oliver.

"Then why show up here at all Falcon?" Hunt demanded, refusing to back down despite Flint's obvious, though no less surprising, submission.

"Coincidence is all. Trust me lads-"

"Don't call us that," Hunt's smile was wide but empty, and free of any real amusement.

"No course not, I-"

Flint was cut off again, but this time by a figure not wearing blue. "Leave it, yeah," It was unclear as to whether he was addressing the Puddlemere players or Flint himself, but the latter was the only one who obliged.

He'd gotten as far as turning his back to the group, the girl who'd been at the heart of the commotion in tow, when a call of 'Yeah, walk away' caused him to halt in his tracks.

Oliver could see as Marcus' back tensed, and his free hands flexed at his side, and, for a while, it looked like he was going to turn around and throw a punch. The newcomers hand on his shoulder stilled him though, and he paused long enough only to throw the guy a thankful look before he pushed his way through the crowd, the new figure following shortly afterwards.

The club, packed with avid Puddlemere supporters as it was, erupted into taunting laughter, which subdued only as they returned to their previous activities.

"Fucking Falcons," Was Benjy's parting remark.

* * *

It hit Oliver about an hour before training the next morning that staying up all night with a constant supply of alcohol hadn't been the greatest of ideas. Not least because their coach, Snippet, had grown increasingly irritable as the conclusion to the tournament loomed.

His alarm, an owl clock that would continue to peck him until he uttered the counter incantation, had gone off a fair few times before Oliver had summoned the energy to pull himself out of bed.

He pulled on his training clothes, that he'd thankfully had the foresight to lay out at the base of his bed, all in-keeping with the navy blue colour palette that identified the team, and apparated with one last longing look towards the croissant he wouldn't have time to eat.

His team were already shuffling towards the pitch by the time he got there, having already listened to the half an hour pep talk that punctuated the start of every training session.

Oliver knew he'd be made to apologise for that later, but for now he just had to focus on working through his head ache.

It was both a fortunate and unfortunate thing that the rest of the team seemed to be suffering from the same symptoms.

Fortunate because Oliver couldn't be singled out.

Unfortunate because it was impossible to miss.

After the fourth time someone had nearly fallen off their broom, Snippet was summoning everyone back to his side, vein in his forehead throbbing.

"I've had it up to _here_," he raised his hand needlessly above his head "with you lot. What do you think you're playing at, turning up to my practises hung over?" He shook his head as he looked over at the team, most of whom where either shifting uncomfortably under his scrutiny, or trying very hard not to throw up. "Does integrity mean nothing to you? If it was up to me, I would have you all fired on the spot." The unsaid 'but' was none the less clear in the players minds as they ducked their heads when Snippet passed.

Training was called off early on account of their half-drunk incompetence, and undoubtedly there would be some more tongue-lashing when Deverill heard about it from Snippet, but for now Oliver was just thankful for the extra few hours of sleep.

* * *

**Possible Britishism **

Smashed - _Like the word 'wasted', it is used to describe the state of someone who is drunk._


	2. Chapter 2

_Tap' 'Tap' 'Tap'_

Marcus watched as Montague's knuckles turned white against the black of the quill in his hand, but still his fingers continued to tap out the beat-absent rhythm that had been his only source of entertainment for the past half an hour or so.

The sharp looks thrown in his direction grew more frequent (and scathing) as time passed, but Marcus was too committed by this point to stop: already having incorporated a hummed tune that did nothing to improve the song.

His feet had joined in too before Montague threw down his quill pointedly and turned in his seat to face him. "_Could you not,_"

"This is boring." Marcus complained, indicating the empty shop around them "We have no customers. Not one. Can't we just call it a day?"

Montague looked scandalised. "We can't just close up early. The boss would _skin_ us."

"You mean he'd fire us. And so what if he did?" Marcus slid off the counter he'd been sitting upon. "This work is shit. You know it, I know it. Hell, even the boss knows it, that's why he keeps leaving us in charge, 'cos _he_ don't want be here. And who does? Clearly not the customers we don't have."

Montague's eyes narrowed further. "Easy for you to say. You've got other work to fall back on. Hell, you're in a fucking _premier league team. _What else have I got? This is it for me. Least you have that."

Marc rolled his eyes, but resigned himself to slumping back down upon the table top. "Yeah, and look how far that's gotten me." He muttered. "I need this as much as you do."

"Besides," Montague continued, returning to the order forms he was supposed to be filling in, "we should be grateful to get work at all. It's been hell for us lot,"

Marcus knew exactly what he was talking about. Following the ending of the war, being a Slytherin, past or present, was like a black mark against your name. Most of the ex-Slytherin's were dropping out of places of prominence faster than a quidditch player struck by lightning. Derrick, an old mate of there's from school, was having absolutely no luck finding work despite being an ex-junior minister that had to be dropped after an 'unexpected' and 'unfortunate' budget cut. And Marcus knew that Terence Higg's had to pick up work at a muggle's supermarket just to get by.

Really, he should be grateful that he has the one job, let alone two. Really, he shouldn't be pissed that no-other player on his team had to do the same, because _so what _that their salary's were higher.

If he'd had to beg any more to keep his place on the team, _he'd_ have been paying _them_. It hadn't come to that though. And he was their best. They had to keep him.

He hadn't even realised his hands had twisted into tight fists until Montague poked him with the sharp end of his quill, his eyebrows furrowed in concern

"You alright there mate?" He didn't even wait for a response before continuing "Oh, and you'll love this,"

He fished around amongst a mound of books that had yet to be sorted onto the shelves, and loose pieces of paper with odd quota's and fireplace directions scribbled upon them, and withdrew a folded daily prophet.

The paper landed on the table beside Marcus, and he eyed it unhappily. "What's happened now?"

"Page seventeen," Was the only hint Montague gave, with his nose already buried back into his paperwork.

Marcus continued to stare blankly as the image on the front whizzed between various montages of boy wonder at St Mungo's hospital, before the sight of his name scrawled in small print at the bottom left corner caught his attention.

Considerably more wary than before, Marcus flicked through the pages with a pace that suggested intentional delay.

He still found the page far too early.

At first he saw nothing of interest, an advert for the magical menagerie was by far the most colourful thing on the page, but then his eyes landed on the black and white photo that dominated the main bulk of the spread.

A picture of him.

Marcus frowned as he tried to recall when the photo had been taken: he was dressed in his quidditch robes, so it was probably after a game, but his expression was drawn and tight. That must have been after they lost to the Chudley cannons.

In black print beneath the image were the words 'The integrity of quidditch challenged'. As Marcus scanned the article, his jaw clenched further and Montague kept shooting furtive looks at him out of the corner of his eye,

"Great," Marcus concluded eventually, slapping the paper back down on top of the counter and rubbing his eyes furiously with the pads of his fingers. "fucking great?"

"Hmm?" Montague asked, abandoning his charade of feeling out the accounts.

"Nothing. Bloody nothing." Marcus threw himself angrily into the stool that stood behind the counter, and then rose against almost instantly.

"Where are you going?"

"Home." Marcus replied testily, throwing the newspaper a scathing look before walking the shop floor towards the exit.

"You can't just leave," Montague called after him, but Marcus didn't stay long enough to hear.

* * *

An owl was waiting for him when he reached his flat, and Marcus knew who it was from long before he untied the letter.

_I need to see you_

Was all the note said.

He'd apparated before the owl had time to take flight.

* * *

"You wanted to see me sir?"

Ragmar Dorkins, manager for the Falmouth Falcons, barely glanced up as he permitted Marcus to enter his office.

Marcus perched uncomfortably on the edge of the proffered seat, and Ragmar let him suffer for a good few minutes before finally looking up to address him.

"What am I going to do with you," he sighed, indicating the prophet that sat open on his desk,"I trust you've seen this?"

Marcus shifted "Yeah, sir I-"

"Then you know why you're here." Marcus opened his mouth to defend himself, but in the end he settled for a sharp nod. Ragmar sighed again, "and you know my problem"

Again Marcus nodded.

"I've put my neck on the line for you kid. You know how people were calling for blood after...well, what happened. And here you are," and he pointed at the paper "is this really how you wanted to pay me back?"

This time Marcus didn't hesitate before defending himself, "That article's blown it way out of perspective. I didn't start anything, and I left straight away. Half of that article is made up, and..."

His voice trailed off as Ragmar's eyebrows drew into a stiffer line. "It doesn't matter what's real and what's not. What matters is what people believe. And people are going to believe whatever that newspaper publishes."

Marcus' eyes fell to his feet that were tapping against the office floor. "So..."

"So, I don't know what I'm going to do. Our team suffers enough for bad publicity without you making things worse. I think it's time to question your place on our team."

"Boss, I-"

"Flint, I've done what I can. And if there was any other way...but we need our supporters, and you starting fights with Wood...its not going to look good. Maybe it'll be a good thing for you. Give you a chance to start again, wipe the slate with everything that's happened."

Marcus resisted the urge to snort.

"I'll talk to the board. But I think we both know what's going to happen."

The board had it out for Flint, they were the reason his pay check was cut and he was constantly under scrutiny...if it was put to them. That was it.

"The lockers will be open tomorrow a few hours before practise. If you want to get your stuff...that might be an idea."

Marcus nodded numbly, swallowing down a lump that had formed unbidden in his throat. "Thanks boss," he said, his gratitude feigned.

"Flint, I am sorry."

Marcus nodded, and left Ragmar's office for what may have been the last time.


End file.
